


This is Not a Love Story

by Arcanista



Series: Our Own Sins [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Angst and Porn, Blackwall Spoilers, D/s, Erotica, F/M, Femdom, Light Dom/sub, Light Femdom, Mid-Game, POV First Person, Present Tense, angst erotica, spoilers for quest: revelations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 07:05:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3110573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcanista/pseuds/Arcanista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warden Blackwall's deception has been made bare for all to see. Since returning from Val Royeaux and barking orders to her advisors, the Inquisitor has shut herself away in her chambers. She cannot stop trembling. She has been laid low by this, and it shames her. But she will not crumble. She will not break. She will hold until he is returned to her.</p><p>The Moon flips, and reveals the Ace of Swords.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is Not a Love Story

This is not a love story  
This is not a romance  
This is self-destruction averted  
These are celestial bodies, hurtling toward each other  
Catching in each other's orbits  
The moment before they both burn

* * *

 

The tea set is ruined. Josephine will have to send apologies to whatever noble gifted it, blame some serving girl who we invented for the purpose. That will have become the truth before the ink dries on the page.

The part of me that is the Inquisitor never stops thinking about these things. The rest of me lifts the delicate porcelain teacup, painted with a motif of spring flowers, and grips it firmly in one hand. I draw my arm back, hurl it against the wall. It shatters, shards raining down onto the remains of the other cups. I lift a saucer, for a moment, then let it drop onto the stack.

I stalk over to my desk. I don't know what I expect to find there. It's all still there. Paperwork, troop movements, letters of regard, nothing I ever want to see again. I can't make myself destroy them. On top of it all, a note from Leliana, consisting of just two words.

_Five days._

My hand lands on top of it, crumples the note in my fist so tightly that my nails cut into my palm around it. Val Royeaux is not close, and there are considerations. I should be impressed at how swiftly she is making this move. I wrench my fingers open, one by one, and smoothe out the note. The paper is starting to feel soft and broken from how many times I've done this over the past two days.

Not even the Inquisitor-part of me thinks I should be out there right now. Even though I should be. There is always more work to be done. The Inquisitor should not be confining herself to her bedroom, throwing dishes at the walls, sobbing brokenly like a child, all over-- over what, a man?

Maker, I am pathetic. But all the more reason to stay put. The truth of the Inquisitor could not bear the sight of her showing herself to be a sad, pathetic, crying little girl, broken-hearted over a common _murderer_.

Well, not common at all, after all, hmm? His account was graphic enough, and I'd read the reports as well. It was a _massacre_  right down to the children, wasn't it? And going on to steal a man's name and life, live that lie even to my face.

My arm twitches, but I hold myself back from dashing everything onto the floor. I just stare down at my hand, the normal one, instead, as though it belongs to someone else. It's shaking, trembling like a leaf. I can barely feel it. I've almost gotten used to when that happens, is the worst part. Not new, at least; that's been happening nearly since the start of all this.

I always tried to hide it-- oh, it's not like everyone else isn't marked by this war but I'm supposed to be _better_  than all of that. But he knew. What do I even _call_  him anymore? He would see my hands shake and close them tight in his and I would rest my forehead on his chest until they stopped. His breath in my hair--

He never, ever told me things would be all right. He never told me _that_  lie, at least. Why am I even bringing him back here? He won't thank me for taking him from the execution he sought for himself. Bastard, how could he have _done_  this to me? He's not stupid, Maker, what am I going to do?

Only the goosebumps on my arms tell me that I'm not alone anymore. Maker, _no_ , not the boy, any time but now. But of course he'd come to me, with my heart bleeding on the floor like this. But what I _want_  is to be alone.

"Everyone is angry at him for lying to them," says Cole. His drifty, distant voice just makes those goosebumps rise harder on my arms. I brace myself, bare toes flexing against the rug. "But that's not why you're angry. You don't care that he lied."

I relax, a little, though I know the other shoe is going to drop yet. I pull the chair aside a little, away from the desk, and sink down into it. Yes, there he is, hat and all. He rocks back and forth on his heels, watching me like a puppy with bad teeth. "Andraste can piss on the truth," I say, and the croak of my voice surprises even me. "No. No, it doesn't matter to me that he lied. Not much. The _truth_  is that I am the chosen Herald of Andraste, blessed by her in the Fade, here to save us all. Never at all mind that it's just an interrupted spell, gone wrong and splattering on my hand. That _I_  don't believe any further than that there probably was a woman named Andraste who got burned in Tevinter. That if I pray at all, it's, it's to ask Mythal to watch over me, for Dirthamen to guide my tongue. That's what really happens, but it's not the truth, not anymore. The _truth_  here is that he _was_  a Warden, and whatever he was before that was no one's concern but his. But if the reality is other-- he's not the first."

I keep my hands moving, fiddling with the arms of the chair. "But you _are_  angry," he says. "You're angry that he meant to leave you, and you're angry that something precious was taken from you, and you're angry that you're thinking of him as some _thing_. The dark thoughts, the shameful thoughts, the thoughts you know not to act on but wish you could. How could he do this to me? I _own_  him. And you're angry that you feel angry. You shouldn't feel that sort of thing, you think."

Now, I flinch. It's all true, of course; I don't think Cole is even capable of falsehood. But now is _not_  a time I wish to look at my soul laid bare. I set my jaw a little. "Anger is a bad indulgence for a leader. I _should_  be working. I want to be working. But I don't dare trust my own judgement right now."

"But mostly you're just sad," says Cole. "Sad that he couldn't tell you before. That you don't know what to do with him, what fits his crimes. Sad that there's no one there when you wake up in the middle of the night, sweating, trying to get away from the flat dead eyes, Maker, he's younger than I am, what lies did they tell him? Or did they trust he would just follow his leaders, drink the red? When did I get so good at killing, it's like stepping on ants now, it always feels in cold blood, this is why Dorian laughs, so he doesn't have to feel this way. Start going through his pockets to hide how my hands are shaking, always keep them moving so no one can see me waver. Rustle behind me, hand against the small of my back. He doesn't say anything, even though I know he's seen."

"Cole..." I say, then catch my lower lip between my teeth. I don't want to hear this. I don't want to hear _any_  of this. This is him trying to help? No. No, I can't see how this is helping.

"Afraid, too," says Cole. Why won't he _stop_? "Afraid of what you'll have to do when he gets here, afraid that even if you save him, he'll hate you for doing it. You don't have to be afraid of that. Nothing you would ever do could make him hate you. What will they all think, if I give him the stay of execution? No one will follow a foolish little girl, a little girl who rules from her trousers? What benefit is there to saving him? What gain will there be? How can I justify this? I can't justify this, I can't."

I lift my hands, clutch the sides of my head. My eyes squeeze shut against the fall of tears. "It's no good for the Inquisition to be sparing a, a mass-murderer from his rightful justice, just because the Inquisitor wishes him for her bed." And there it is. Plain as day in front of me. I let out this horrible hiccuping sound, shoulders twitching.

But Cole doesn't stop there, of course he doesn't. He seems in a trance now, voice moving faster and faster. "Seed still sticky on my thighs, bitter in the back of my throat. I never liked the taste before him, but, oh, now, I could get used to this. Are all humans so _big_? No one from my clan was-- why am I cold, where did he go? His clothes are gone, what's wrong, I knew something was wrong last night, but-- panic hot in my stomach, where is he, where _is_  he?"

I throw a saucer at him. He doesn't move; my aim is wild enough that it smashes against the stairs. "Stop it," I say. My shoulders quiver. "Stop it, stop it, stop it!"

"I'll stop," he says, calm as ever. "I'm trying to help you, but every road to helping just seems to be hurting. You're all tied up in knots. You can't see how to save him without hurting everything, but you can't let go without hurting _you_. And you don't know how to help people while you're hurting like this."

"All I want," I say into the palms of my hands, "is to wake up and know he's there. I've gotten maybe two hours of sleep since we got back from Val Royeaux. I... I should thank Cullen for meeting me there. I know it must have been hard for him."

"He feels awkward, when you thank him for things," says Cole. "He tries to not imagine you with all of your clothes off, but he can't help it sometimes. He does it more when you're kind to him."

For what feels like the first time in my life, I manage a small smile. "I can't begrudge him that. If things had been different, I... well. Never mind that thought. Don't... don't tell him I said that. Please."

Cole bends to scoop up something from the ground, walking to the corner of the room. "But there's one thing I don't understand. What sort of seeds are sticky? Why would they be on you? Wouldn't it be better to put them in the ground?"

A spider. Returning a spider to its web, of course. I haven't got the heart to tell him that I'll take a broom to it the minute he leaves. "It's-- I don't think I should be the one to explain this to you. Ask Varric, maybe. No, not him. Maybe? Don't tell him why you're asking, don't tell him it's from-- from something you saw in me. I think, though-- I think I can manage now. Enough to at least think this through."

"I'm glad," he says. "You always hurt less when you're thinking about things. I'm sorry I can't help you more."

I slowly lever myself up from the chair, wipe my face. Not done crying for the night, not by half, but for the moment I think it's past. Right now, though, I think there's only one thing I need to be doing. "There's one more thing you can do, actually," I tell him. Should I be using him as an errand boy? Well, it can't hurt, I suppose. "Would you find Dorian for me, please? Ask him to--" I pause, teeth on my lower lip once more. Easy enough to have him come up here, but, no. I need to get out, at least a little bit. "Ask him to go clear a booth in the tavern. Ask him to bring wine. We're starting with wine. We're ending with whatever's left in the place. If he's reluctant, tell him I'm buying."

He won't be reluctant. He's never reluctant when it comes to drinking. I usually don't, not like he does, anyway. But right now, I need a friend to help me drink until I can't feel feelings anymore. That's what tonight is for. I look up, and Cole is gone.

Well, good. But first things first. I'm not at _all_  presentable, and if I'm to actually set foot in public I'll need to get out of my dressing gown. A few more moments to be sure I'm alone, and then I let it drop in a pile on the ground. Nude, I stride over to the closet. When did I get used to having a closet? At least I still have the good graces to be put off by dressers. The idea of needing someone _else_  to put your clothes on you... the thought makes me shiver.

I select a pair of dark trousers, made from wool so soft I would never have believed it, a year ago. My fingers linger on a silken shirt, but I change my mind, taking a shirt of the same black wool as the trousers, fastened with gleaming silver buttons. If I wished to be poetic, I might say that the shades reflect my mood... but in truth, my only thought is for hiding the inevitable winestains.

Not my most attractive ensemble; wearing black washes me out, makes me look like half-dead. It seems appropriate right now. I go and brush the knots out of my hair, tie it back halfway. I splash water on my face a few times at the washbasin. Powder my face to hide the dark circles. Only enough black 'round my eyes to make myself presentable. A dab of pink to my lips.

I look myself over in the mirror. Casual, to be sure, but properly Inquisitorial, if I'm to be seen on my way to a night out with a friend. I pull on a cloak against the chill, and slip out of my room.

The stairwell's not empty. An unassuming girl has pulled up a chair to slouch into, and she's thumbing through a book. She jerks upright when she hears the sound of the door, and scrabbles to her feet. I take a guess, and say as I wave her along to follow me down the stairs, "Tell Leliana I'm not-- quite ready to rejoin the world yet. But ask if she can come up to see me as late tomorrow afternoon as she can manage and still call it afternoon. I'm going to the bar, to meet with Dorian."

The girl snaps into a hasty salute. "As you say, your Worship," she says. If there's anything that I didn't realize I had until it was gone, it was the ability to go places without needing to tell people.

I'm never getting that back, am I?

But my expression never wavers as I stroll through the great hall of Skyhold, politely ignoring the girl shadowing me. I don't notice when she breaks off to go find Leliana. It doesn't matter.

Is it a problem that I can find my way from my bedroom to the local tavern as good as blindfolded? But while Skyhold is a large castle, it still is quite a small ground. Easy to memorize. Let's just say that instead of considering what it means for my drinking habits, or those of my friends. Everyone already knows how bad they are, anyway. Nobody talks about it, that's all. Well, we'd never stop if we did.

Dorian is waiting for me, just as I knew he would. He waves me over when he catches my eye. "You're just in time," he says, as I lean up to kiss his cheek. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to save a seat in this place? I've had to beat these people off with sticks."

"Mmm, you must have liked that," I say as I slide into a chair. He's already poured the wine for me. I _must_  remember to lean on the Chantry to get him nominated for sainthood. I lift the glass to my lips and start drinking. I don't stop until I hit air. I don't even wait to grab the open bottle, and I just start pouring.

"You're hitting the ground running," says Dorian, sitting across from me. "You _have_  had something to eat today, yes? I don't want to have to ruin your-- what _is_  that you're wearing, it makes you look _ghoulish_."

I lean back, taking this glass a little slower than the first. "You're not the only one who was thinking of clean-up, that's all. And yes, yes, I haven't been neglecting myself _that_  much these past few days. Well, mostly because someone dug up this absolute monster from the kitchens to just _loom_  over me until I cleaned the plate. I'm looking that bad, am I?"

"Well, you don't look good," says Dorian. He toys with his glass a little, before just shaking his head, drinking. "You really don't do anything halfway, do you? When _I_  have a lover with a sordid history he doesn't want to tell me about, it's more likely that he wore the wrong outfit to a party." That's a lie and we both know it. But the sentiment is true, and that's all that's ever mattered to me. It makes me smile to hear the joke all the same.

"Mm," I say, then lift my left hand, letting the glow catch the light. "It's this. Like moths to a flame. Because that's really what the world needs, a light that attracts unwise romantic choices."

"Oh, yes, I'll take ten," he says. He dumps the last of the bottle into his glass, then uncorks the next. "But I have worried for you. This sort of news-- well, anyone would take it hard, but you..."

Another glass down the hatch. "What about me?"

Dorian waves a hand aimlessly. "You're wound tighter than a drum, most of the time. You could very well snap. But I don't think you'd let yourself, and that's... that's a little frightening, to be honest. Seeing you adrift like this-- I don't think anyone knows what you would do."

I grunt around the rim of my glass. "Frightening. Wonderful. If there's one thing I _don't_  know how to do, it seems, it's not frighten people. Well, I'm not about to throw myself off the balcony, if that's what anyone is worried about. If it makes you feel better, I'll be meeting with Leliana tomorrow to go over options. They may smile to my face, but I heard the things they were saying when they thought I couldn't hear, in Halamshiral. I _refuse_  to have them say the Inquisition is ruled from my-- my _cunt_. They're used to thinking of elves as-- as masturbatory aids. It won't be a long step for them to make. I _cannot_  simply let this matter go easily."

I don't miss Dorian wincing. "I suppose you must be right," he says. "I don't really notice that sort of thing. Pity you can't just wave your hand and change all that."

"If only," I say, leaning my head on the back of my chair. "Or if we're playing the if-only game, wouldn't it be much easier if I were a man? We'd cut a fine figure, you and I. And you'd be much simpler to deal with."

"You've met my father, and you say that? Though seeing you stare down my mother would be quite the sight..." Dorian shakes his head. "We wouldn't get that far, I don't think. We'd be at each other's throats inside of a week. I can't think of anyone I'd rather ignite a stranger with, but we're looking for some _very_  different things in a man."

"What's that supposed to mean? -- Are we out of wine already? It'll have to be beer, then." I lean over, waving to the serving girl. "When did the size of the bottles shrink?"

Dorian's finger points at me, stabbing. "I mean that you, missy, are a control freak. Come now, surely you've noticed _that_  much about yourself."

I drum my fingers against the table, snatching the tankard with my free hand as it comes. "Well, what if that's so? Enough in the world moves around me that I should like to have that-- stability at home."

"There, you see? Not even considering that someone might want a little more back-and-forth to it." says Dorian. "I'm not saying there's anything wrong with that. It's not as though you're looking for more of a tamed puppy than a man, but if you wanted a challenge, or even a partnership, you'd take Solas. I've seen the way he looks at you. He'd jump at you if you let him, and I know you know it."

I stare into my beer for a few moments more. "Perhaps," I say. "And I _know_  you're asking yourself why not Cullen, and, well. There goes a man who looks at me and sees the Inquisitor. Oh, he knows there's a person underneath, and not a very good one. But there's this naivete to him, you know? I don't think he realizes how big the divide in me is. And I don't think I can... that's not something I can deal with. I need someone who can look at me and know what, who I am. Who won't buy into that mystique." I pause to drink. "But it seems I can't escape that, can I? I _thought_  he would never do that to me. Leave me with that perfect image of him? As if I had one in the first place. As if I were some unstained, pure--"

"You may not be," says Dorian. "But even if he knows your image for what you say it is, what if it still means something to him? What if he thinks it's more of _you_  than you do?"

"We knew-- know each other better than that," I say into this terrible beer. "I thought we did. But you're right. I can't imagine what it's like to have that eating inside of you for so long. And if I inspired him to-- to right it, or make it less wrong. I... I suppose that's good. But he could have _told_  me... no, he couldn't have, I would have stopped him. Just like I'm doing right now. So he ran."

"Almost makes Cullen's pedestal look cozy, hmm?"

I wrinkle my nose. "This has turned out awfully calculated for something that felt like pure animal lust at the time. I should have... at least seen this coming. I _knew_  something was wrong the night he left. But I didn't much _care_ , at the time, at least not enough to press after he waved it off. All I wanted, well..."

Dorian shrugs. "I've seen the two of you together. I'm sure I can guess what you wanted. What you both wanted, really. Not that I blame you, not one bit." He makes a face into his beer. Doesn't stop him from drinking either, though. "Well, maybe you could have done something. But we both know the dangers of taking hindsight too far, hm? Look, you don't just pick up out of a place like this at the drop of a hat. He knew he was leaving. Whatever you might have done..."

A fresh beer comes, and I start in on it. "Or saying something would have been enough to put him off it. But, no, once he got it into his head, he wasn't going to stop for anything, was he?" I rub at my face with my hand, then crack a smile. "Oh, look at me. There's taking it hard and there's making it all about me. How are you putting up with me?"

"Well, you are a marvelous distraction from the taste of this beer. Do you think they found a dead weasel in this barrel? It tastes like weasel."

"I didn't know you knew what weasel tasted like." I snicker, and my lips stay in that position after that laugh ends. A smile? It feels good to smile. I hold the thought, and swirl the beer around in the tankard, leaning over to sniff it. It splashes onto my hand, but I let it be. Instead, I take a swig, swirl it around in my mouth in elaborate parody of Orlesian wine-tasting. "Rat," I say after I swallow. "It's definitely rat. So what happened with you and your soldier-boy? I haven't seen the two of you together lately."

"Oh, him." Dorian shakes his head in dismay. "Stationed in the Western Approach now, and I'm sorry, but _no_. Wouldn't have worked out anyway. He had these terrible teeth, and I couldn't stop looking at them. Fereldan hygiene is bad enough, but their _teeth_? How do these people chew?"

"So you're breaking it off with men because you don't like their teeth? Somehow I suspect it wouldn't be my control issues stopping our torrid love affair from shaking the heavens." I drain the tankard of Chateau du Rat and wave the girl over for another. "You'd probably find a mole on my backside that reminds you of your mother."

He recoils. "I'll need you to never use the words 'mother' and 'backside' in the same sentence again, thank you very much."

I laugh, and we keep drinking.

* * *

I awaken in my own bed, still fully dressed but under the covers. My head throbs, but no worse than a spell gone wrong does to me. It hurts to open my eyes, so I squeeze them shut against the bright sun. Unfortunately, it leaves me fully able to focus on thick, acid taste in my mouth. Echoes of last night's wine and beer mingle with that distinctly vomitous taste, and also something... milky? What did we _finish_  drinking?

I sit up halfway, leaning on one elbow, then peel open one eye. A vague, Dorianish shape is sprawled out on the couch. I squeeze that eye shut, and dig the heel of my palm against it. "What happened last night?"

A rustle from the couch and a faint, muffled groan. "You said you were done drinking Fereldan dog piss. Went to find out if that special order you'd put in was in yet. What _is_  that stuff? It looked like milk. It wasn't milk."

It rings a bell. A tiny bell that makes my head throb harder. "Oh," I say. "It's halla milk. It starts out that way, anyway. It's much better by the time we're through with it."

"It tasted like it had been through something, that's for sure."

I sit up the rest of the way, holding out my arms a little to steady myself. "Ha ha. How did we get up here? I don't remember."

There's a similar sort of rustling from his direction, like he's sitting up and regretting it too. "I went and I found Iron Bull. He was still up and ambulatory, of course, so I got him to help get you home. By the time we got here, all those stairs back down seemed like a terrible idea. I knew you wouldn't mind."

"It's fine," I say. "He tucked me in. That's a little odd. There's a real mother hen underneath that Qunari exterior. I wonder how the Chargers stand it?"

"I imagine the pay does it," says Dorian. I take another crack at opening my eyes and squint in his direction. Bedhead looks good on him. Lucky bastard. I bet he never has to try.

I just shake my head, and head for the bell. I give it a couple pulls. "Well, you're staying for breakfast, I hope? Or lunch, or... or whatever time it is. I don't think either of us are presentable enough to poke our heads outside yet. What do you usually have, the hair of the dog?"

"Don't say dog!" Dorian runs his hands through his hair, smoothing it down a little. "Whatever you're having is fine, but forgive me if I don't linger very long. You understand, I simply can't be seen like this."

"Mmhmm," I say. "So sorry to ruin you by showing off your bed hair." One of the servants slips inside in response to my call. I give him his marching orders, then stretch out. "Really, it's downright offensive. You should not look this good waking up on a couch after spending all night getting drunk on expensive wine, cheap beer, and fermented halla milk."

"What can I say? It's a gift. I'd get changed if I were you, though."

I raise my eyebrows, then pinch my shirt, lifting a bit of it high enough for me to sniff. I wince. "Try to restrain yourself," I tell him, and slip into the closet to pick out a clean outfit. Nothing he hasn't seen before, camping's great for that, but _manners_ , really. I emerge, tugging the fresh shirt down over my hips, and toss the old ones in a neat pile. Fingers through my hair a few times to smoothe it, and I go to sit with Dorian. "Better?"

He reaches back to pluck something from the back of my head, saying, "Much. Don't sell yourself short, you know. I don't know many people who can jump from bleary-eyed to perky in as little time as you."

"I'm just a fantastic actress." I rub my face a little. "You wouldn't say how perky if you could feel what's going on behind my left eye right now. If only because I know you're not paying attention to the state of my breasts."

Dorian pretends to glance at my chest. "I'm certain they're perfectly fine breasts. Spherical. That's a good quality for a breast to have, isn't it?"

I swat him with a throw-pillow, and I actually catch him off guard. The laugh that bubbles out of me comes as just as much of a surprise. "Spherical? That's the only thing you could think of?"

"Why you'd ruin a perfectly good chest with those bouncy little globules of flesh is beyond me," he says. "Don't get me wrong, I'm sure they're perfectly delightful if you like... soft things. But if _you_  did, we wouldn't be in this little mess right now, hmm?"

"I like soft things just fine," I say, reclaiming the pillow. "But unless Vivienne suddenly decides she'll finally agree to have her way with me, I'll just have to make do."

Dorian snickers, shaking his head at me. "You _must_  be feeling better if you're saying that sort of thing about Vivienne, of all people."

I lean back to think it over a little. It could be the hangover distracting me. But... "A little, I think. Enough to get by, anyway. Thank you, Dorian." I do smile to him, halfway.

"Oh, don't go sentimental on me," he says, but he tugs me over for a hug. I rest my hands on his back for just a moment, then lean back. "You'll be back to hastily groping each other in the stableyard in no time."

He laughs when he sees me blush. It helps. Breakfast goes well, and I feel almost decent by the time he leaves. My head is clear enough that I can touch the mound of paperwork on my desk for the first time in days. Nothing critically important, but then anything _critical_  I get is usually delivered in person. I do pick up a fascinating proposal from a group of mages looking for research funding, and I start taking notes in the margins. I'll probably grant the funding, but some of their numbers seem a bit off. I suppose I'll arrange a meeting with the head researcher, and perhaps also check some of these numbers myself.

The back of my pen is in my mouth when I hear someone clear their throat. I stop chewing, and look up. "Ah, Leliana."

"It's good to see you," says the Sister. I can never read her tone. I think she looks a bit disapproving... or is that just my expectation? "Is now a good time to discuss the... Ranier situation?"

I set the pen down, carefully move my papers aside. I try not to let her see me flinch, when she says that name. Ranier. I never want to hear it again. "Yes," I tell her. "Pull up a chair, if you like. I'm sorry, we should have done this sooner. He should be here... tomorrow sometime?"

"Mid-afternoon, as of my most recent contact." Leliana drapes herself over a chair in a fluid motion. "I trust you will not wish to defer judgement to the day after?"

Somehow, I do not rush to answer her. "I think not," I say. "The docket will be a little fuller than usual, won't it, with my indisposal? Well, Josephine can schedule it so that it works, I'm certain."

"Of course," says Leliana. "Well, that is the easy part taken care of, at least." She crosses her legs primly, making herself comfortable. She watches my face far more closely than makes me comfortable.

"The hard part, then," I say. "All right, feasibly speaking, what are my options, how bad are the implications, and what can we do to mitigate them? In that order, if you please."

Leliana flicks through some papers. "Let's start at the top then. I assume simply executing him ourselves is off the table, though politically this is likely the wisest course of action at this point."

My teeth catch my lower lip. "Don't think I haven't-- no. No, we didn't break him out of an Orlesian prison just to finish the job here."

"He will not thank you for this," says Leliana. "He is not being unco-operative with my agents, but he has been perfectly clear that he wishes to be returned to that prison."

I lean back, hands sliding beneath the desk. It hides the tremor that runs through them. "Let him," I say. My voice is the steadiest part of me. "I will not permit it. If he wishes to repent for his crimes, his death answers for nothing."

Leliana looks at my face for a long moment, then nods. "That will suffice, when the matter arises. Then, since he must live, I see three options you might consider. The first, well, you could simply demand he continue his lie. Let what happened at the gallows be swept under the rug."

 _Nothing you would ever do could make him hate you._  "He would appreciate this even less, I think," I say, lifting my hands again and tapping my fingers together. "What about rumours? He was quite... public with his declaration."

"Rumours can be squelched," says Leliana offhandly. "It could cause trouble if anyone of importance heard of them, but we could lay enough false trails to provide a suitable alternative. However, it would be difficult. Often such talk grows like weeds."

What Cole said was true... if only because I would never do this. "That's a bit more of a bloodbath than this matter is worth, I think." Easier to frame it that way. Leliana may well know the truth, but if I can say it well enough that she lets it pass without comment, it's good enough to pass in public. I've learned a bit from Josephine and Vivienne, to be sure, but Leliana is the one who's taught me the important bits. But she's taught me far too well for either of us to admit to the other how similar we are to one another. "Let's set that one aside for now. What's the next proposal?"

Leliana flips to the next page. "You could set him free."

"Just like that?" I tap my finger to my cheek. "Considering the implications of this has been a point of concern for me. But I'd like your thoughts; simply because I know a few moves under controlled circumstances hardly means I know how to read the board." Yet.

"In principle, it is simple enough," says Leliana. "If you choose to say that serving as the shield of the woman who is saving the world is sufficient payment for his crimes, no one will dispute it. Openly."

"Openly." Never mind as well that if that was sufficient for him, we would not be in this mess. Would my blessing change that for him? Perhaps. But could I risk that? I might have to. And that was only half the problem...

Leliana must catch something in my look. "Yes," she says. "That is the problem. Oddly, the other sorts of rumours are far easier to contain. But those that would arise from this course of action would concern the perception of your motives. And few would appreciate you freeing a murderer-- whose former lie was used to extract much of them-- to serve at your side, much less your bed. And even if you do not openly take him as your consort, they will assume this. And you, I trust, will not appear well enough above reproach to truly put those down. You have already been seen publicly with one another, in Halamshiral. It would take some very public disputes between the two of you to appear other than what you are, now."

This was what I feared. Already the notion sent a burst of panic down my throat. I rise, swiftly enough that Leliana makes a faint noise when she looks up at me. I lean forward, full weight resting on my hands. It stills them... mostly. I can see the temors in my ring fingers and I cannot still them. "This will invite gossip-mongers," I say. My voice feels like it belongs to someone else. Someone composed. Someone who is not afraid that she will destroy so much of what she has built in the name of-- "It will damage alliances, and it will invite even deeper ire over our invocation of the treaties than we already face. It will certainly affect how people regard me personally. Tell me true, Leliana. We do still have a great deal of goodwill after Halamshiral. How badly would this hurt us?"

Leliana's eyes follow me as I move off, pacing in a tight circle. "We would recover. In time. My agents would do their best with these notions as well. But as you no doubt surmise, it would not take much for opinion to turn against us. Were you human, perhaps we could turn the story into one of romance. But a Dalish and the murderer at her side? There are those who would use this to fan flames against your people."

" _Some_  alienage would burn, because the Inquisitor cannot shut her legs," I murmur. Can I take that upon my conscience? "You said you had three options."

"We would try to stop it, if that were to happen. But yes, I do," says Leliana. "In truth, nothing we can do here will win us friends. But it might go better were you to sentence him to the Wardens."

I stop pacing. I feel very, very tired when I ask, "Give him to the Wardens? Can we do that? They choose their own."

"Yes. But the original Warden Blackwall did just that four years ago." Leliana waves me back towards my desk. I sink into the chair. "Even if they do not like that argument, I think they will not deny you, after what you have done for them."

I rub my left hand over my face, ignoring the tingle. Set the lie and the crime aright? He might even accept this. But I have learned too much about Wardens of late for me to sieze upon the notion without reservation. "You like this idea best," I say. I did not miss how she has been framing them. "Tell me why."

"Even with their susceptibility to Corypheus, the Wardens command a powerful mystique," she says. "We can use that. And while, yes, we could justify simply letting him go, there would be resentment. At least with the Wardens, taking in criminals is something they are specifically empowered to do and known for. And if they overlook his impersonation? Why shouldn't everyone else?"

"Still the matter of the treaties," I say, then pinch the bridge of my nose. "But Josephine's smoothed over worse than that, I think, if we can deal with the rest. I assume it will-- look less personal, if we do it this way. This business of their Calling... that may not be well known, but everyone knows Wardens don't-- they don't d-die of old age." My teeth clamp down on my lower lip the second I realize the stutter.

"I think you can't avoid it looking at least a bit personal," Leliana says. "But yes. It would help a great deal to make a point of that. I think it would not even hurt to let that distress show, if you are comfortable with it. Your relationship was made public in Halamshiral, but only now will it be looked upon with much scrutiny."

Something about that twists inside of me, and my head falls forward. I stare down at the desk, but I'm not really seeing anything. I don't know if the sound I make is a laugh or a hiccup or a sob. "So we can turn this into a love story only so long as it has an inevitably tragic ending," I say. "We'll use this. We'll use this, but it does not please me. Maker, why can't I-- I'm sorry, Leliana. I shouldn't let you see me like this." I don't know how I remain standing. "I feel such a fool carrying on like this. This is not even a tragedy, I have lost nothing, but I-- I..."

"We do not often get to choose where our hearts lead us," says Leliana. "And so long as this is only a momentary lapse, none of this is insurmountable. Still, it would be good of you to appear at mealtimes and resume taking appointments again soon. We cannot plead illness on your part forever, and there are formalities to be seen to with the guests."

"Not before this matter is settled," I say. "Please. I'll catch up on the rest of this then. Once I've done that... well, if there's no word about any moves Corypheus is making in the Wilds yet, I'll deal with a few of these reports about rifts. I think I'll need the exercise. Is that enough of a plan laid out for you?"

"Enough of one to move forward on. About tomorrow, then...?"

I rub my hand against my face. "I'll give him to the Wardens. Make whatever arrangements you need to make that happen. But, before you go..." I straighten a little, stretch my arms behind my back.

Leliana watches me start to walk across the room, and follows behind me. "Yes?"

"Come on," I say. "Help me pick out what I should wear for this tomorrow. I still need a second opinion to gauge effect on these things. I'm thinking I should lean a bit severe? Something androgynous, I think. It _would_  be nice to get to wear a skirt at least once, but I think that wouldn't look good for me this time."

Leliana comes with me, to look through my closet. "You've got a good instinct for this," she says. "Truly, you've impressed me how quickly you've taken to the Game. I did not think one of the Dalish would have such a heart for politics."

I hold up a shirt against myself, and Leliana tsks at me, taking it away. "I always knew that one day I would be Keeper of my clan," I say. Leliana offers me a shirt of an amber yellow. It matches my eyes, but has little other virtues. I wave it off. "I suppose I've just transferred the notion to my new position. I imagine going back now would be... stifling. Bother, there must be something I can wear in here. Why does looking so effortless take so much _work_?"

Leliana laughs. "It is the way of things. Ah, if you will not have the yellow, perhaps this in green? The collar is dreadful, but the rest of the cut should suit your needs. A bit boyish, with the right foundation garments."

I know the shirt she's talking about. I hold it to myself and tsk. "This? I'd need to find Bull's second for help flattening my chest just to get it to fit. But that might do, actually. Plain trousers, then, with a shirt this bright. Do you think I could get away with a little tighter? Mn, but that's such a waste if I'm sitting. What you said about the Wardens, and their mystique-- we're already playing that angle with the nobility as it is. Do you think we could work that a little more? Get them to look more gallant, less mysterious secret society coming to take your shiny sword that they like? If I'm to be openly with him, it would be better for people to think good things of Wardens, rather than 'oh no, that Warden clearly has undue influence over the most powerful woman in southern Thedas.'"

"Grey, I think. Look at these?" Leliana passes me a pair of trousers, which I eyeball against myself in the mirror. "It's a good thought, with the Wardens, but in this I think we are dependent on their co-operation. Of course, you do have them feeling _very_  co-operative at the moment. Since they are, for the moment, willing to take our marching orders... Hmm. Yes, I think we can work with this. Some rumours here and there, and if we can keep them grateful..."

The trousers should do; comfy enough to sit in, but a tailored enough cut to look presentable. "I think a coat overtop. It gets chilly in the hall in the first place, and, you know, with the right cut it makes me look like I have hips. Or is that a bad idea?" I hold the shirt against a few of my coats, eyeballing the colours. "If they know what's good for them, they'll let the Inquisition handle things. That is not a threat. But they will be elevated if they let us use them. They might fancy being welcomed places, for a change."

"Your ambitions might frighten people, if they knew," says Leliana. "Try the darker green, I think it will go well."

I pull out the coat she points to, and hold it against the shirt. Plain, but I did say severe. "That is twice in as many days I have heard that I am frightening. Perhaps I should ease back on my demeanor. This is good, I think. How do you like those boots there with this? I could use the height."

Leliana lifts up the boots, holding them against the trousers we picked out. "This is fine. I would not worry so much about being perceived that way; you have taken good care of that. But it is always unnerving to watch sausages being made."

My nose wrinkles. "Now, there's an unpleasant thought. Well, I will trust your judgement on that. I think once I get a girl in to paint my nails, I should be as armoured as I can be for tomorrow. Tell me, Leliana, do you..." I pause.

"Yes?"

"I don't suppose you or one of yours have something that might help me sleep? Getting to sleep isn't the problem-- it's staying that way. And I can't afford to have another night out like last night."

"I can manage something for you," says Leliana, "so long as you do not ask again for some time. Such concoctions are habit-forming, and one recovering addict on the council is enough." She pauses, then asks, softening her voice, "Is it truly that bad?"

I set the outfit aside, where I can easily find it tomorrow afternoon. "Not good, since all this started. Bad, since Haven. Worse still since Adamant." I flex my hands a little, watching them closely. They are, for once, still. "It's not-- that surprising, is it? I'm far from the only one. There's a war going on, after all. Show me someone-- not a dwarf-- who doesn't have their sleep disturbed by it all, and I'll show you someone who will be dead of drink within a year. But nobody talks about it in the first place, and who could I talk to? I'm not... just doing this for selfishness. It's just... easier to get through the night, when there's someone with you to help chase dreams away. For me it is, anyway. If this goes well, I'll be able to manage. If not..." I bite my lower lip. Let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. "I'll still manage. Somehow. I want to break. It would be so easy to break. I will not."

Leliana brushes her hand on my arm, briefly. "I'll have it sent up with your tea. Avoid having anything stronger than that this evening. I'll send someone to check on you in the morning, too, just in case."

"Thank you," I say. "Please, I think I'd like to be alone for now."

* * *

Leliana's herbs help, and I get a night of thick, dreamless sleep; probably the first real rest I've gotten since all this started. That unnerves me a little. But I am up in time to go over the schedule Josephine has prepared for this afternoon, still swathed in my dressing gown. The docket is surprisingly merciful. A couple dignitaries to greet formally, some commendations, a mother who wishes me to bless her new-born child... what in the world were people doing in Haven? For the amount the Inquisition spends on herbs, preventative and otherwise we shouldn't be swimming in so many. Maker knows I am _intimately_  familiar how much life-threatening danger enflames the passions, but the results are preventable.

Well, moving on. I see a representative from that research group I signed off on yesterday is after the domestic bit. After that is-- well.

I go do my make-up and then get dressed. Looking this good has never felt this terrible. How that boy of Bull's endures flattening all the way out all the time is beyond me. Just going far enough to get this shirt on and make a clean line is bad enough. Itchy. Reminds me of how it's been over a week now since anyone but me has had hands on them.

I consider adding gloves to the ensemble; mostly as a means of hiding just how thoroughly I've powdered my face. My complexion is far more suited to an archive than the outdoors, and much as that is an advantage at court, I have yet to encounter any blemish that was not magnified a thousand times over by it. But my nails are lacquered crimson, long and almost sharp. I fetch a pair of fingerless gloves from my armour and consider them. Tacky? Out of fashion? But I like the grip, and I want my nails showing. Give me time for a full social season and I'll be the one making the fashions, anyway. I tug them on, enjoying the familiarity of the broken-in fennec leather.

Some time to kill before all this starts. I go back to the desk, pick up some papers. This one from Dorian, going over some interesting finds out of the archives. Definitely sainthood. I put my feet up on the desk, and flip through his notes. I must really have him worried, for him to go this far out of his way. I jot down a note to find him a particularly nice brandy as thanks for all this.

Eventually, my assistant lets herself in. "They are ready for you, your Worship. At your convenience."

I tug my feet down from the desk. "Tell Josephine I will be ten minutes at most," I tell her, then go to put on my coat and boots. The tremor in my hands is minor today. A quick look in the mirror to gauge the effect, now that I'm all put together. I pull my hair back a little tighter. All right, that's more to convince myself I don't much look like Morrigan than anything else. Bad enough luck for it to turn out there's more than one yellow-eyed witch in the world, but for her to flounce around dispensing wisdom that was three-fourths things I'd already uncovered between Solas and my own studies, an eighth pure hogwash, and only that tiny remaining sliver useful? I resist the urge to add even more smoke and violet to my eyes.

I am dawdling. I look flawless. A paragon of androgynous severity. My body's curves, robust by elven, but only elven standards, flattened out into a smooth line. Dramatic make-up, lips redder than usual. At the last minute, I add perfume, smoke and amber, spice and honey. It is thick, oppressive, a taunt to anyone near me.

I enjoy that.

With a breath, I turn, walk to the stairs. Chin high. I do not look back. I do not look down. My right hand drifts along the rail as I descend the stairs. I land my heels just so, letting the noise of each step ring out around me. Childish? Perhaps. But they will hear me coming. My hand rests against the door to the Hall. I count three breaths. The litany of instructions to myself rolls around in my head. Breathe. Smile. Hands steady. Never look down. Never stop moving.

I push the door open, stride out into the hall. I nod briefly in Josephine's direction. As I move to sit down, she says in a clear voice, "Lady Inquisitor Lavellan."

I do spare her a glance once I'm seated, a faint jerk of my head toward the door. She nods once to me, a tiny little motion. My palms sweat against my gloves as I grip the arms of the throne. The rest of me reclines, one leg crossing over the other. My bootheel points outward, and I bounce my foot as if in idleness. Act casual.

The first few agenda items go easy, smooth. I hear about the goings-on in places I couldn't possibly care less about, and they leave convinced the Inquisitor is personally invested in their plights. Guests are welcomed to Skyhold with open arms and warm hearts. I pin medals on the chests of a few boys and girls who have yet to realize that I will inevitably send them to their deaths, with sorrow but without regret. May they never realize it.

The next one... the mother is about my age, of _course_  she is. I get back up to my feet as she approaches. She refuses to meet my eyes. I smile all the same, as reassuring as I can make it. "Well, let me see your little girl, hmm?" I reach out for the tiny little bundle. She fits too easily in my arms, and she looks up at me with her clear blue eyes like she knows exactly who I am. "What's her name?" I don't listen for the answer. It was on the schedule, and I already knew what the name would be once I knew it was a girl. They're _all_  named for me these days, particularly here in Skyhold. I just hope enough of them have decent middle names to cling to, or else whatever schoolroom we get set up in a few years' time is going to be terribly confused.

I carry her behind the throne, the closest thing to privacy I can give in a room like this. I tickle the little girl under the chin, and give her a smile-- a real smile. Something buried very deep inside of me twists as I look down at this little human child, something I can't quite put my finger... be honest, that I'm not willing to examine, not here, not now, not ever with this war going on. But for that single moment it grips me so tightly I can scarcely breathe.

But the moment passes, and I gently rest my Fade-touched hand on the child's forehead. "This isn't the blessing your mother hopes for," I murmur to her in Elvish. "But this is the one you will get: may Mythal and Sylaise ward you, Andruil guide your hunts. Ghilan'nain make your steps swift. May those who follow you do so because of your choice, and not your need. May no one tell you to do something you do not wish to do. May you never have the need to do it. And may your life deal you a gentler hand than the one I received, little girl of my name."

The girl coos up at me, and I take her back out, hand her back to her mother. "You have a fine little girl," I tell her. "I hope she does well for herself."

The mother does look up at me now, her smile restrained excitement. "Go on now," I say. "You and she will be fine."

Finally, the researcher takes his turn. He starts off on the wrong foot, condescending and simplifying the nature of his requests. The mental figure I have earmarked for his group shrinks. I ask sharp, technical questions. He's bad at hiding his surprise, but I don't think anyone else notices. They do notice me deftly outstripping him at his own job.

In the end, he acquits himself poorly enough that I defer the funding, suggesting his group make an appointment with my secretary at a later date. I subtly suggest they pick out a less pathetic replacement.

There is only one other item on the agenda. Josephine gives me such a nervous look it chills me a little; she is usually at least as composed as I. She flips the page on her board, wets her lips. She makes a gesture to the guards at the back of the hall, then faces me personally. "For judgement this day, Inquisitor, I must present Captain Thom Ranier, formerly known to us as Warden Blackwall."

The guards haul him up to just in front of the dais. Like Leliana warned me, he is not struggling, but he certainly does not look willing. Or at all good. I try not to think of what must have happened while he was in that cell. He looks everywhere but at me. I fixate my gaze on a point of stonework. Josephine continues, inexorably. "His crimes... well, you are aware of his crimes. It was no small expense to bring him here, but the decision of what to do with him is now yours."

I do not blink. If I do, my makeup will run from the wetness. My hands clamp down on the arms of the throne. It takes a long time for me to find my voice. "I knew this would be difficult," I say, forcing myself to project my voice loudly enough to be heard, "but I did not expect it to be this hard."

He speaks to his feet, but the gravel in his voice still makes me quiver. "Another thing to regret." He does look up now, and he looks as angry as I've ever seen him. The notes of dark sarcasm I've heard from him before come out as sharp venom. "I know you put another man in my place. Haven't enough died for me?"

I lean back, clamping down hard on the fire that surges up within me. Fine to show some feeling here, Leliana said. But a rage is not the thing to let loose here. I turn it cold, take refuge in sheer formality. "No one died _for you_ ," I say. "I pray you: do not snatch the costs of my orders from my own conscience. It is mine to bear, and not yours to judge."

Eyes squeeze shut. "There's enough evil in this world because of me." But he finds his own confidence, and squares his shoulders as best he can, with his hands bound. Looking back to me, he says, "I _accepted_  my punishment. I was ready for all this to end. Why would you stop it? What becomes of me now?"

For the first time, I freeze. The words I'd planned die on my tongue. I just look at him, tangled hair, dark circles under his eyes, a fresh gash on his cheek. I want to run to him, kiss it better. I very nearly do. I take one breath, two, three, each deeper than the last. He watches my eyes, warily. He sees me blink, the black lines demarking my eyes blur. Slowly, delicately, afraid of saying something I must not, my tongue wets my lips.

My voice comes out hoarse, but I dare not stop to swallow. "Blackwall intended you join the Wardens. They may decide your fate. When Corypheus is dead. For now Thom Ranier, the Inquisition needs you."

I cannot read his blurring face. "As you command."

Steady, steady, steady. Do not look down. Never look down. Never look back. Never stop. For my own benefit, rather than his, I say, "This is not a mercy. I know not all survive the Joining. And the manner in which Corypheus lured them... Regardless, the life of a _true_  Warden is hard."

He sounds more... relaxed? Did it work? Will this actually work? "If I die," he says, "it will be no less than I deserve. And if I live... I'll make it count. But before I take my leave, I do have one more thing to say."

My teeth slide over my lip, never quite biting, but I give him a short, sharp nod, bidding him continue. My shoulders twitch beneath my coat. This is it. He could destroy me with a word, here and now. I think about my eyes, blink as rarely as I can. _He_  can see me cry, but no one else here may. So I will not allow them to spill.

Then he says it. "If ever there was something good and true in my life, it was you." He starts making his way up the steps. One of the guards glances to me, but I wave him off with a sharp gesture. I cannot move any other part of me. I dare not. "I lied about who I was, but I never lied about what I felt. No matter what I was, or what becomes of me, right now, I'm just a man with his heart laid bare. I leave it in your hands."

My throat burns. I can't help but blink, and feel fat tears carve trails down my cheeks. I take deep, shuddering breaths, the force of them alone making me shake down to my toes. I lower my voice, so I am speaking only to him. "You were ready to die. But I wasn't ready to let you go. I need you here with me."

His bound hands twitch, as if to wipe at my tears. He glances aside, saying, "I don't know how to be with you as Thom Ranier."

I rise, carefully. I've felt steadeier when I was piss-drunk. I make my way to him with tiny, careful steps. When I stand before him, I say out of my throat, "We'll... we'll work something out."

He glances to the others in the hall, then steps forward, ascends the last couple steps. I lift my hand, press it to his cheek, and he tilts his head against it. My other hand lifts, squeezing his shoulder. I lean in and I kiss him, too chastely for me, not chaste enough for this place. My tears run down into his beard, and I hear a faint, anguished noise against my lips as his hands jerk at the cuffs again. I lean against his chest, trembling like a leaf. But it's all right; no one can see, because he stands between me and the world.

I whisper into his beard, "I, I imagine there's a bit of paperwork before you can go. Returning those cuffs. All of that." Maker, his smell, all sweat and leather, how could I have been away from it? I make a final gambit. "When you're ready, come see me? I don't... I don't know if you want to clean up or something, or if you even want to look at me any more today." There is panic in me at even the thought that he will not come.

He bites my lower lip, nodding. I still don't know what even to call him anymore. I pause, using him as a shield so no one need see me wipe my eyes. I step back, and he withdraws. I turn my head to Josephine. My voice comes more fluidly than it has in days. "Is there anything further, Lady Montilyet?"

"Nothing of import, Inquisitor," she says. She glances to me; there is sympathy there in her eyes, but an awkward sort. She has had an image shattered, and she does not know what to do.

I incline my head, tug my gloves. "Then I shall take my leave." As if I had not just been crying and kissed in front of all the court, I sweep my gaze across all those still gathered. "A good day to all of you."

Dignity as repaired as I can make it, I sweep off, turning back to the door up to my chambers. My assistant has somehow managed to arrive ahead of me, and I murmur to her, "I do not wish to be disturbed for the rest of the evening. Only one exception. You know who."

Only once she has left me do I stride over to the liquor cabinet, pour myself a glass of one of my nicer brandies. I pour a glass, and take a light sip. Glass in hand, I pace a slow circle around the room. Well, I'm never going to be able to visit my clan again. Oh, friendly politics will be maintained, of course. But this would be one step too far for us to ever be able to deal personally together.

I never really liked them anyway.

But it feels good to have something else to brood about, so I do. I do until I have circle the room, lighting candles everywhere so I can see. Will he not come? It is the chance I took, when I let him loose to come of his own volition. But the waiting is an agony. My coat and boots sit in a pile on the floor, discarded what feels like hours ago.

I move out to the balcony to watch the moon rise. Far enough from the stairs that I don't hear him come. I only know he's there when I hear, softly, "My Lady."

I drain the brandy and slowly turn around. His hair looks damp, even in this light. "Come here," I say.

He steps out to join me, slips an arm around my waist. He is so warm, through his shirt. I fit perfectly in the crook of his arm, nestled up against his side. Damp hair, beard looks like he's just given it a trim. Harsh scent of soap curling into my nostrils. I burn to rip his clothes off, find out just how clean he's gotten himself, to know that every rivulet of sweat I lick from his chest is mine and mine alone. He feels my breath quicken, looks down at me. I hold back still, and say, "This is ridiculous, but... I don't even know what I should call you. Right now. Anymore. At all."

He lifts his hand, cups my cheek with it. "I've gotten used to 'Blackwall'," he murmurs. He tilts my chin up, and places a single, soft kiss in my lips. "Perhaps we could think of it as something of a title. Remind me of who I ought to be. Sort of like 'Inquisitor', hmm?"

A fresh wash of tears comes to my eyes, rising and falling in a single instant. "Bastard," I whisper, but there are no teeth to it. "You understand. I know you do. Why wouldn't you tell me? You knew I would understand."

Blackwall lowers his head, breathes into my hair. His free hand reaches back and begins carefully sliding the pins out of my hair, cupping them in his palm. He starts gently leading me inside, and says, "Maybe what I needed wasn't understanding. There's a part of it I know that you don't. That I hope you never have to."

I let him walk me to the dresser and set all those pins down. With both hands, he strokes his fingers through my hair, carefully letting it down, easing away any tangles before they form. I do not speak, but look up at him, instead. His eyes look distant, past me, through me. "For every pain you take onto yourself, my Lady, I know, and you know, that you would do it all over again. Every single one. And I know what a struggle that is for you. But I envy it all the same." He kisses through my hair, and I feel my heart flutter. "I knew, I knew I could not let another claim a death that was rightfully mine. If it meant dying myself, then it was no less than I deserved. If I couldn't set things right, I could at least stop doing things wrong."

I give my head a toss, letting my hair fall loose around my shoulders, and take him over to the couch. He sits, and I look down at him for a long moment before he continues. "Even if it hurt you, I had to do this. And I would do it again. For once, with no regret." He pauses, then amends, "No, I'll always regret hurting you. But not enough to want to change what I did."

My tongue dabs my lips when he says that last. I sit on his lap, my chest to his, knees pressed to his hips. "Maker," I breathe. "We're far too alike." It's not the Inquisitor he idolizes. Not that part of me at all. I press my hands to his shoulders, pushing him back against the couch. He doesn't resist. "I do not forgive you." He knows this.

"I would never ask you to," he whispers. "I would never want you to." He leans forward, but his shoulders remain against the couch as if pinned there. I lean my head in the rest of the way, and his lips crush against mine. I inhale his breath, slow and deep. No tongue, none, not yet. By rights I should sieze that tongue of his, drive him all the way back, and grind down into his face while he laps at my slit until his fucking beard is soaked to the skin, until I spend myself a thousand times.

I should. But I won't. Not yet, anyway. "But know that I will look who you were in the face and never flinch. That who you are and who you would be are what I need. I would have no one else. And you know that last is no thing I would say lightly." My hands slide from his shoulders, but only so far as to tug his shirt open. The buttons slide through the holes, rather than pop off, more's the pity.

Blackwall's hands lift, stroke up my sides. "Maker, I love you," he whispers, right into my ear. A shudder of raw desire grips my body. He asks, as he feels up my top, "What in the world did you do here?"

My hands feel slowly up his chest, tracing the muscles, drifting over the familiar scars. "Tied them down. Like whatsisname, Bull's second does. But not quite as flat as he does, the need's different." I dig my knuckles in a little, making him gasp. "Figured with what I planned, it'd be best if I made a less womanly impression on people. You know I'm not above working with people's expectations."

"The _Game_ ," Blackwall says bitterly, and starts undoing my shirt. "I know there is no avoiding it, not for you. But what amazes me is how you look at these tiny little things, and you just _know_. You might as well be reading Elvish for all I can follow of it."

I lean in, sweeping his beard aside to press kisses up his thick neck. "A man comes at you, sword in his left hand. Lightly armoured, but the blade is heavy and he's got no shield. You already know how he's going to fight you. You already know how to kill him. You weren't wrong, when you called the Game a war." He gets my shirt off, and my breath quickens against his skin. "I went into it thinking it would be like fighting. You know I hate fighting. So: I have to be the best at it. And so, I seek to make a battle swift and decisive, and yes, the ills that go with that." I slide my tongue down his shoulder. His hands rest right on top of my covered breasts. I quiver, but he lets me continue. "So I approached the Game the same way. Learn the moves, become the best there ever was. But the thing is, mm, the Game is a war for the pieces. But for the players?"

I draw my head back, guide his hands to the ends of the bindings. He starts slowly, slowly unwrapping them. "You can never stop playing the Game," I say, fingers flexing. "The minute you stop moving, the minute you let them see you blink, you are dead." Once his hands are moving, I lean in and I kiss him again. "There are ways to withdraw gracefully, to be sure. But none are open to the Inquisition. To me. Certainly not with the war going on. After...?" I gasp as he finally frees my breasts, and slides his hands around to cup them in his hands. They are damp with sweat, but he doesn't even notice, just slides his thumbs overtop. He smiles, halfway, as goose-bumps rise beneath his fingertips. "I can't say. These people barely know to wipe after they shit. And you know that, with that _awful_  'retainer' story."

Blackwall laughs, lowers his head, kisses my breast. His beard scratches my skin, and I missed that so much. I gasp. My red, red nails drag down his chest, tracing, not digging. He gasps. "Does that bother you?" I ask.

He slides one callused hand up my neck, raising my chin, lets it rest against his palm. "I know no matter how hard what you do is, you are always trying to do good. To be good. That's enough for me." I quiver against him, but in a good way.

My fingers slide up to that gash I noticed earlier. He's cleaned that up too, but that spot is still red and swollen, even where hair starts taking over. "Was it very bad in the prison?"

He covers my hand with his, says a little too flatly, "They've been waiting for six years to get their hands on me. I can't say I didn't deserve what did happen." The hand squeezes, grips mine tightly for just a second, relaxes. He doesn't need to ask me to drop the subject.

All the same, I lean in, and I kiss him there, lightly. Nothing more than that on that spot. Instead, I whisper, "I will never let you go." He makes a low noise on my cheek, while his hands reach around, sliding up my bared back. They push, gently, and I grind my hips against his lap. My heat and his drift and curl together, even through the thick layers of fabric. Oh, yes, I can feel him stiff through it all, and I want it.

"Maker's balls," he says, hands gripping my sides, but not in the slightest preventing me from grinding atop him. "If you're going to keep that up, you'd better have something in mind, or else I'll--"

"I'm going to _fuck_  you," I growl on his lips, and undo his belt. My hand finds his way inside, seeks out the source of all that heat. Hard and long, and oh, how it must be aching to be inside me. And mine, all mine.

" _Yes_ ," he says, and his hands nearly tear my own pants open. "You're letting me off easier than I expected."

I get his pants open, and his cock springs desperately free. My teeth clamp down on his lower lip. Around it, I hiss, "You won't say that once you've sucked the seed from my sopping cunt." That makes him blush, one of a tiny handful of things I might ever do to him to get that reaction. I let go of his lip and lean my head back, so he can see my smile, a real one, that feels like it's stretching from ear to ear. I wriggle free of my pants, getting them down and off. I get his pants just a bit more open, slide both hands down his cock, teasing it the rest of the way hard, glorying in the faintly slick feel of it. Has it only been a week? It feels a lifetime.

He squeezes my ass once, tightly, then lets go so I'm free to move. "If that's what it takes to get back into your good graces, my Lady," he says, voice caught somewhere in his throat. The flush stays hard on his cheeks. "Then I'll take every last drop."

I rise up a little, use one hand to slip the tip of his cock between my lower lips. I rub it there, wetting it thoroughly on my own juices. "I know you will." He puts a hand on my hip to keep me steady, other hand slides up my chest. I close my eyes, back arching, relishing the sheer restraint it takes to keep me from just slamming myself right down on it. My free hand presses flat to his chest, steadying me from the other side. His breath is already quicker, harder. Too long for him, too. How long can I hold it? I _need_  him inside of me. I will not. I will not until he _begs_.

Blackwall knows it, too. I feel his back arch, hips strain upwards, but press no deeper in me than _I_  permit. His breath is heavy, still hot by the time it reaches my still-sore breasts. I stroke my nails down his chest, and only then open my eyes to look upon his face. His expression, far-off, but still trained on _me_ , absorbed in the sensations I bestow on him. "Andraste's tits," he groans, and I dig my nails into his chest. "She only sent you here to torment me."

"Mine are better than hers," I breathe. My head is dizzy; I feel nearly drunk. But I am, aren't I, on this feeling? I grind harder, faster, and I nearly slip. I want to slip. But I don't. I will never slip. Control freak, am I? _Yes_. Dorian was wrong about everything but that. My nails drag, to slow to scratch, steady enough to feel. To meld with the sensation of cock-head between pussy lips.

His hand squeezes my ass, hard enough to leave a mark. "I never doubted that for a second," he says. His other hand holds one of my breasts, just hard enough for me to want more. Thumb flicks at my nipple, and it's taut enough to bounce. My back quivers, and it arches so tight. He knows just how to tease me, how make me want to rush. He smiles, he smiles because he knows it. I smile back, so he knows he's always mine.

That smile is what breaks him. "Please," he says, and his chest presses into my hand. He stops leaning forward when he feels the pressure of my gleaming red nails. "I can't last another minute. Not without being inside you. _Please_."

He gets my sweetest voice, all honey and smoke. "All you ever need to do is ask." I sink downward, stretching around his length. The sound of our flesh meeting is slick, wet, obscene and beautiful. It hurts, but a hurt I crave, a hurt I desire, a hurt I _need_. My shoulders urge backwards and my breasts thrust forward, Blackwall's hand offering no resistance at all. The sound that rises out of me is no moan, not yet, but it coils up from the tips of my toes. I hold there, sunk all the way down, stretched taut around him. My breaths come with voice now, hard and urgent and shameless. "This will be quick, I think," I say, and I laugh, losing all my spare breath to it.

"Is that a challenge?" he asks, and pulls my nipple out slowly. But I can see the subtle writhing down his back. "Not one I'm up to today." I laugh, squirming until he releases the nipple, relief as good as the pain. He gives my backside a swat, not hard enough by half (it never is unless I make him), but I'm open to the cue. My knees, my legs shift, toes digging pre-emptively into the couch.

Poised, stretched, balanced, I am ready for him now. My hips rise up, and I feel every last inch of his cock inside me as I go as high as I can manage before he slips out. Then down again, too slow to start, but faster with each successive motion. I go a little bit cross-eyed as the sensation floods me, breath out of sync with my movements.

Blackwall lifts his hand, tangles it in my hair, pulls it tight. I cry out, the pain spiking enough pleasure for me to let out a full-bodied moan. He makes his move then, pulls my head down to his, presses his tongue into my mouth. My head tilts just as much as that hold allows, and I revel in how his beard scratches my face. My tongue rises to his, tangling in it, tasting it, drinking it.

His other hand slinks down the front of my body, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. I know where it's going, but he slows down the lower he gets, and the anticipation just drives me down on his cock even harder. When his thick, rough finger finally lands on my clit, it's almost too much, and I moan desperately, never helplessly, into his mouth, around his heavy muffling tongue. He pulls harder at my hair and I shudder against him, toes curling tight against the cushions.

"Oh, yes, oh, yes, yes," I gasp, as I break away from the kiss, a thin liquid cobweb stretching between our lips before my words snap it. "You must," I say, pounding my hips against his, driving into the inexorable workings of his finger, "You must, oh--!"

He presses hard kisses into my neck, beard digging into my skin. He must be drowning in the sound of my voice. "I must-- what, my lady?" The strain is so thick in his voice it nearly pushes me over the edge, but no, no, he will not win this game, not tonight of all nights. Perhaps one day he will, but, oh, no.

I let him hear it in my voice, though, how close he is to winning, how close I am to breaking flawlessly for him. In four words, I bestow upon him my ecstasy: "Now come for me."

Blackwall holds until the final word leaves my mouth, and he groans onto my neck, a long, aching sound. His hands clamp onto my hips, pulling me hard down against him. Too deep for me to feel the spurts, I feel it in the way his muscles go taut, the rush of breath on my wet skin, But I hold myself back. He holds onto me for dear life, as if after this perfect moment, I will vanish into smoke.

His fingers quiver against my skin when he is spent, and only then do I let go. The floodgates open, and everything I'd had pent up for the past week, for the past lifetime rushes through me. Hands still hold me steady, feeling the tremors of pleasure echoed through my skin. As if they'll run away like water if he doesn't catch them all and hold them tight. My cunt, call it what it is in this moment, clamps tight around his cock, squeezing the pleasure out of him and into me. Sharp, sweet stabs, each one longer than the last, until--

I lean forward, slowly, my shoulders pressing to his chest. My breath comes hard and fast, cold on my skin and his. Blackwall slowly eases up, doesn't quite let go, but his hands relax, and he slowly slides his arms up, curling tight around me. I tilt my head, pant into his chest hair, tension I didn't ever notice slowly easing from my shoulders. He slips out of me, bit by bit. "I don't know what I'd do without you," I whisper. Just so he can barely hear me. "Please, don't ever make me have to wonder again."

I feel Blackwall's hand reach back to my hair, smoothing it back softly this time while I catch my breath. He's sorry, but he knows I don't want to hear it, so he just breathes, quietly. I let the throbbing inside me slowly die down, wait until I feel my heartbeat more than my pulse. "Better?" he breathes.

A few moments more, then I lean back. I whisper, "I am. But now you have a problem to deal with, mm...?"

He kisses me, lightly, sweetly. My tongue dabs at my lips after he leans his head back. "What problem might that be?"

I bestow a coquettish smile, and tease, even as I command, "How are you going to get me all the way over there?" My head jerks toward the bed. "Without spilling a single drop?"

Blackwall's voice catches in my ear, and he lowers his head to kiss my neck, once. I give him some to think that one over, until he chuckles, with a mischief to it that I know only I get to hear. I'm about to ask what he's on about, when his arms shift, all of a sudden, and he just flips me over his shoulder, quicker than I can blink. Ass pointed straight up, one arm holding me just above knees. He stands up carefully, and my cheek settles just below the small of his back. I breathe against his damp skin, hot enough to make sure he feels it. He finally gets his pants off now that he's standing.

He hauls me to bed, upside-down, blood rushing to my head. "Satisfied, my Lady?" he asks, with all his irony, the irony that charms, the irony that disarms. He knows what my answer is. There is only one. He takes his time, making sure I feel every step, _bouncing_  almost.

I giggle, a sound I give to no one else. I give him the answer. "Never," I say, out of my throat. He gives my ass another too-light swat, and I kick my legs a little.

He chuckles again, then stops by the bed. "Ready?" he asks, waiting a moment or two for me to breathe. He tosses me upright, back onto the bed effortlessly. I sit, with a more breathless giggle, and point to him, smiling. One crooked finger keeps him from joining me there, as firmly as if he were bound with steel.

"Not yet, you," I whisper, tossing my head. I scooch to the edge of the bed, and say, "You remember what I told you. On your knees." I rise onto mine, and now I feel that slow, thick drip, sticking to my inner lips, not further than that, not yet. There's that faint flush to his cheeks again, but he lowers, slowly. His fingertips rest on the corner of the bed, and he looks, at eye level now with my sloppy wet lips.

This will be a trick. My tongue dabs over my lips while I survey the landscape. Mn, I know. "Turn around," I direct. "Back against the bed." He complies, slowly, putting one hand against his back while he moves. Should I slide off the bed for this? Hmm, no. I can do this. I turn too, and walk on my knees back, hips lifting just so over his head. "You'll want to lean back, a little," I whisper, wrapping one leg tight around his shoulders. I feel his shuddering exhalation against my inner thigh. He knows how I want this, and leans, just so, just enough that he won't need to take _all_  my weight himself. I would like him to be able to breathe, after all. Occasionally.

"Deep breath," I tell him, stroking my fingers down through his hair, for once not tangled. "Say when." I give him the moments, the air he needs that I'm about to deny him.

His tongue slides out, collecting wetness from my inner thigh. His, or my own? I can't tell. "I'm ready," he whispers into my parted lips, as if all his life has been for this moment. My other leg moves, curling around his other shoulder. My heels press in, as I still hold myself a bit high, then gently settle onto his mouth. His nose is free, but just barely. His hands rise, clutching my backside and shifting me just a bit, so the bed carries most of me. I have enough leverage to press down, and his tongue rises obediently.

I forget trying to track the specific motions of Blackwall's tongue. I close my eyes, just feel his tongue inside me, lapping, licking. His lip shifts to press into my clit, and I rock forward, pressing more. Not enough pressure for me there, but it will do, with the rest. My thighs clamp tight to his cheeks, beard digging into the tender skin. I twist, for my own benefit, to feel it burn and redden my skin. For it to chafe, every time I try to close my legs. This feeling, mine, that I take.

A moan oozes out of me, long and sinuous. It sounds like his tongue, rising up as far as he can reach, higher when I rock my hips forward. He gulps for air when I lean back, then dives right back in. He's done this before me, and more than once. His tongue dances, defter than anyone but me would suspect, knows where to push, where to brush, where to press his lips. I moan again, louder, thinner, sweeter. My hands reach down, tangle in his hair, but they don't push him in, there's no need. But I hold on, fingers tight against his scalp.

My tongue slips over my lips, tasting for... something, it doesn't matter what. I have everything, in this moment. His hands squeeze and knead at my cheeks, blunt nails pressuring the skin. I writhe my hips, just a little bit more.

This, this is what I needed, what he needed too. I really will never forgive him, not for trying to take this away from me, even if he had to. But I don't need to forgive him. He is still mine, will _always_  be mine.

His hair is so soft, when freed of tangles. My fingers spread into it and-- ah. My back eases, my head leans back, and things start melting away from me. Sweet moans, my voice uncontrolled, the purest sound of me rises upward. Blackwall's tongue urges me, and in this there is only one of me, only one of him. One hand slips out of his hair, reaches back, takes his. He squeezes my hand tightly, and our fingers lace together.

Every second seems to draw out forever, sounds collecting in my throat, every sensation within me all that I need to exist. I cannot let go: I have nothing to hold onto, anymore. I clutch his hand, squeezing. This is not one-sided; he carries within himself the keys to me.

There is no single moment, where the swells of pleasure burble into a peak, or if there is, not one I can feel. A flowing upswell of joy, of heat, and then it slowly washes back, drip by drip. My sounds ease away, and when they do I feel Blackwall's tongue slowly drift to a stop. He holds my hand still, as I carefully unhook my legs, one at a time, then let myself fall onto the bed.

He doesn't let go of my hand, but I hear his voice catch as he stands. I look to him, though my head feels stuffed with cotton. His face is gleaming wet, beard soaked through, clinging stickily to his skin. He rubs the small of his back, and I tug the hand I hold. I smile, slow and sweet, and pull him down to join me here.

Blackwall eases onto our bed, pulls me close to his chest. I rest my cheek on his shoulder, and feel his breath in my hair, all heavy and hot. I never want him to let me go. That is, I always want his arms there. Metaphorically, it is already so. The metaphor is never enough.

I lift my head, look up, let him see my unguarded face. His hand slips from mine. He traces his fingers over my lower lip, and I kiss them softly. There's a wonder to his face as he looks at me, as if he's never truly seen me before. No one ever will, other than him. He knows this. And I kiss him, kiss his sweet, salty, sticky lips. They taste like me and him mingled all together. I kiss him again, dabbing with my tongue to take more of the taste for myself. Not all of it: this, I will not be selfish with.

Him in my mouth, next time, and I will suck him dry, but now, now, now is perfect, languid against his broad chest. I whisper, "I knew you were lying about something."

Blackwall's arms enfold me tighter. I barely hear the resigned question, "You did?"

"I wasn't sure about what," the words flow through me. I do not need to think. "To do with the Wardens, of course, but you know I know very little of them. The way your voice would catch, the way you would evade. Something wasn't right. And your past... well, everyone knows Wardens might well have led troubled lives. You didn't wish to talk about it. I didn't know how to ask. I spent the past week asking myself if I could have seen this coming."

"I tried my hardest to make sure no one could," he says, pressing his face into my hair. "Not even you. It still seems you suspected more than I intended."

I bury my face in the crook of his neck. "You're not a very good liar," I say. "I am. But I like that about you... the way all the honesty shines through your cracks, even though we're made of lies."

One hand slides down, strokes the small of my back. "You could have anyone else. Everyone else. For all I know you already did."

"I kissed Solas," I admit. It's easy to say such things, right now. "In a dream, before you and I. For a while, I thought he and I might... but no. There's something... something there, that I... he's broken in a way I cannot fathom. I'm not the one to deal with whatever it is. We never spoke of it again. And already by then, you were intruding in my thoughts."

"So I shouldn't be jealous," he says, the humour in his voice always so dry.

"You know my eye wanders. Without you, would it be more than an eye?" I slowly look up, hand lifting, rubbing his cheek. "Maybe. I wouldn't want to speculate. With you? I would not do that to you." It will not be my hand that destroys him so. He has given himself utterly to me, and I will protect him, in what ways I can.

"I know you wouldn't," he says this because he knows I need to hear it. He squeezes me close. Right now, everything is easy. In the light of day tomorrow, everything will be back. But right now, it is just him and me.

He raises one hand, traces a finger over the faded vallaslin beneath my eyes. The colour never took well to my skin, not after it was first laid. I had been thinking of getting the lines darkened before I was sent to the Conclave. It was an advantage, then: not much powder and I could pass for a flat-ear. I close my eyes, just feel the catches on his skin, before the hand shifts, curves, cups my cheek. "I've never known anyone so beautiful," he says, voice adrift, talking to himself. I lift a hand, trace my fingers over the back of his hand, stroke the stray hairs, feel the little nicks and old scars.

I touch my tongue to my lips, wetting them. I open my eyes, then press up against him. I pause, then lay down before him a truth that I have been holding too close, myself. It is not a romantic truth. "It wasn't spiders that I saw." My shoulders quiver a little. I snake an arm around his waist, holding on to him.

"Sssh," he kisses through my hair slowly, softly. "I know," he breathes, without needing me to say more. He pulls me closer, more secure within his warmth. I need this too. I cannot always be steel. If it were just the sex, I could find an outlet. But this, this, his breath, his arms. His _knowing_. In other moments, it would feel weak to give in to all this. But now I can let the wires that pull me every which way slacken, let me down, let me breathe.

Every breath I take is filled with his scent. It makes each one even deeper. There are things I want to worry about. That I'm going to worry about. The complications of all this. But I don't have to, yet.

Blackwall gives me another squeeze in those strong arms of his. Against my hair, he tells me, "Just sleep. I will be here, when you wake up."

Almost, I forgive him.


End file.
